


I Pray For Myself, But I Never Learn

by trashcangimmick



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Daddy Kink, Depression, Dirty Talk, Dissociation, Frottage, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mental Illness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Slut Pics, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-07-08 00:57:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19860916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: Scenes from the objectively strange courtship of Billy Hargrove and Chief Jim Hopper.





	1. Polaroids

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, a dump for all my dabbles because I'm obsessed. Title from 'Gin & Milk' by Dirty Pretty Things.

“For the last time, Flo. Your entire job is to answer the phone and make sure I can find case files when I goddamn need them.” Jim tugs yet another cabinet open. Starts rifling through the manila folders. 

“And for the last time, Jim. It doesn’t matter how I file things because you don’t put them back where they belong. Have you checked your desk drawer?”

_“Have I checked my damn desk drawer,”_ Jim grumbles. 

But he does shut the filing cabinet and lumber over his desk. It’s too early. He hasn’t had enough coffee. The last thing he wants to do is pull out the Bob Newby ‘cold case’ file. The file that’s been redacted to hell and back. The file that doesn’t include an autopsy because there was no body to find. 

Bob’s mother keeps calling about it. Jim doesn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. So he said he’d hand over what he could find. 

Jim sinks down into his chair. It creaks a little. One of these days it might give out on him. But it’s comfortable. It’s gotten him through rough times. And well. There’s some good memories attached too. Those are more recent. 

Focus, Jim. _Focus._

He tugs his desk drawer open. Flo is standing on the other side of the room, primly skimming through banker boxes full of paper and forms. 

Jim’s drawer does not have a whole lot useful in it. There’s a half empty bottle of Jack daniels, a pack of cigarettes, extra pair of handcuffs, pencils with the tips broken off and pens that are likely out of ink. 

There is, however, a folder tucked beside the whiskey bottle that isn’t usually there. It’s much too thin to be any sort of case report. But the curiosity is irresistible. Jim takes it. Opens it. 

A cluster of polaroids spill across his desk and he nearly has a heart attack. 

He scrambles to collect them back into the folder before Flo can see. She turns to look at him with a raised eyebrow right as he closes it. He smiles. Kicks his desk drawer shut. 

“Wasn’t in there.”

“All right.” She sighs. “I’ll go check the file closet.”

“Thanks Flo. I appreciate you.”

She huffs a little at that. But then she’s gone. Jim opens the folder again carefully, like its contents might jump out and bite him. 

They’re all pictures of Billy. 

Spread suggestively across Jim’s bed, in nothing but the tan shirt of a Hawkins Police uniform. It’s Jim’s shirt. It’s almost a dress on Billy. The hem rests halfway down his thighs. Billy clearly took the pictures himself. Some are a little blurry. He starts out on his stomach, propped up on one elbow, ankles crossed in the air like a pinup girl. Smirking the way that makes Jim wanna slap him. 

Then he shifts to his back. The shirt falls open. Billy’s hard cock in clear view. There’s pictures with his hand wrapped around it. Mouth open, shiny, bite bruised lips. Eyes half lidded. Clearly in the throes of pleasure. The last photo is Billy licking white globs of come off his own fingers. 

Jim’s gonna have a fucking stroke. 

He picks up the phone. Dials his own number. It rings twice before a lazy voice says, “Hopper residence. Billy speaking.” Like he lives there. 

“I’ve told you not to answer like that,” Jim hisses. 

Yes, Billy is eighteen. No, that doesn’t make what they’re doing morally or socially acceptable. If they get caught. Jesus. Jim doesn’t wanna think about it. He’d probably get run out of town on a rail. 

“You’re the only one who calls here in the middle of the day,” Billy laughs. 

“What the hell is this shit?” Jim shakes the folder. So fired up it takes a second to realize Billy can see him. “When did you even take these pictures?”

“Oh, you found them.” Billy’s voice gets a little softer. Sweeter, the way it does when Jim’s the only one around to hear. 

“Yeah I sure as fuck found them. Flo was in the room. It’s a wonder she didn’t see.”

“Mmm... did you like them?”

“That’s not the point. How did you break into my desk? It locks.”

“You liked them.” Billy sounds entirely too pleased with himself. In fact, his breath hitches. 

“Are you. Touching yourself.” Jim grits his teeth. 

“Maybe.” Another few heavy breaths. “Whatcha gonna do about it, Chief? Gonna take an early lunch so you can come home and teach me a _lesson?”_

“You’re a fucking brat.”

“Guess I just need a firmer hand, Daddy. You been going to soft on me lately.”

God. The words send an uncomfortable lurch of heat through Jim’s body. He’s already half hard. He’s not sure if going home to fuck Billy would be positive reinforcement for bad behavior. Or if letting Billy jerk off to this has already made it a moot point. 

“Stop playing with yourself. Right now.” Jim growls. As loud as he dares. As stern as he can. 

Billy whines. So pathetic and needy. _“But Daddy.”_

“If you come before I get home tonight, I’ll make sure you can’t sit down for a week.”

“Fuck.” 

“Watch your language. I’ll be back at six o’clock sharp. There’d better be food on the table.”

Jim hangs up. Pulse racing. A little dizzy with what just happened. Billy doesn’t work today. On his days off, he usually does just hang around Jim’s place. It must be better than his crowded little apartment with four roommates and one bathroom. 

Since Jane left to stay with the Byers for the summer, this whole playing house thing has gotten out of hand. Jim really should pump the breaks. 

But then he looks back down at that picture of Billy licking his own fingers, and he knows that any semblance of self control went out the window months ago. He’s a disaster. Billy’s a reckless teenager. Match, meet fuse. It’s going to be a hell of a bang. 


	2. China Cat Sunflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Added Tags: Recreational Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Anal Fingering, Frottage

“You’re kidding me. You’ve  _ never _ heard of the Grateful Dead?”

“No?” Billy selects a french fry off the plate on the coffee table and pops it in his mouth. Hopper called before leaving the station to ask if Billy was hungry. Of course, Billy said he wasn’t. 

He maintains direct eye contact while he chews. Then he grabs another fry, dips it in ketchup, and eats that one too. 

Hopper is apparently too focused on the shock and disbelief of Billy not knowing about  _ The Dead  _ to complain about the theft. 

“OK. This is unacceptable. Don’t move.” Hopper hauls himself off the couch.

Like Billy would go anywhere. He’s so comfortable. Curled up with his knees against his chest. Wearing nothing but an oversized  _ 1979 Indy500  _ t-shirt. Stoned. Relaxed. Nowhere to be and nothing else to do. He takes another hit off the joint as he watches Hopper select a cassette tape off the shelf and jam it in his junky boom box. Sounds like a live recording. Billy recognizes the opening melody. 

_ St. Stephen with a rose, in and out of the garden he goes. Country garden in the wind and the rain, wherever he goes, the people all complain.  _

Probably a late seventies show. Billy’s never been great at guessing the exact year. Rick could. With incredible accuracy. He’d know the year, sometimes even the venue and the date. 

Billy grew up in Santa Monica. He knows who the fucking Grateful Dead are. 

Hopper returns to the couch. Slumping down on it lazy and sloppy, still wearing his uniform. He takes the joint when Billy offers it. All cops are hypocrites. It’s a thing Billy learned early in life. You can get out of a lot of sticky situations on your knees if you have a pretty mouth. 

“This is lame.” Billy says after the song is about halfway over. He eats another fry. Even gets bold enough to pick up Hop’s burger and take a bite. 

“It’s not lame. It’s classic. Better than that screamer metal shit you listen to. There’s no melody! It’s just noise.”

“OK, gramps.” Billy snorts. 

The song starts to trail off into  _ China Cat Sunflower.  _ Which makes Billy think about lying on cool, dewey grass, staring up at the sky as the stars swirled. Tripping balls. Whole body thrumming with the rolling waves of the universe. The chatter of the people around him was just background noise. Everybody too high, and drunk to care about what anyone else was doing. No second glance towards the naked teenager with a grown man on top of him. Free love, or whatever. 

Nothing quite like getting fucked on acid. Billy wants to try it again sometime. Maybe with someone who’s a little nicer than Rick turned out to be. 

“Have you ever done acid?” Billy takes another bite of the burger. Hopper’s eyes are closed. He’s just leaning back on the couch with the joint in his mouth, humming along to the music. 

It seems to take him a second to register the question. To look over with concern. 

“Well. Yeah. Once or twice. Have  _ you,  _ done acid?”

“Sure.” Billy shrugs. “Once or twice.”

Once or twice a week for most of a summer. But that’s what happens when you’re fucking a dealer. Billy had some problems with reality after all that. But he came back. Kind of. He had problems with reality in the first place. So forgetful. He just remembers enough to know it’s better that way. 

He puts the burger down. Licks his fingers real slow. Hop watches, which makes Billy act extra slutty about it. When there’s no more grease, only spit, Billy slides forward onto all fours. He crawls across the couch and settles into Hopper’s lap. He has to spread his legs pretty wide. Hopper’s thighs are thick. Soft. Nice to sit on. 

Billy plucks the joint from Hopper’s lips. He finishes it off with a deep drag, drops the roach into the ashtray beside them, cups the sides of Hopper’s face and blows the smoke into his mouth. 

Then they’re kissing. It tastes like fast food and weed. Pretty good combination. Hopper grabs Billy’s bare ass and squeezes. Billy moans. He already so hard. Too hot all over. 

Some people are sexy because of how they look.

Billy knows that everyone who lays eyes on him thinks he’s beautiful. He could have whoever he felt like having. Plenty of pretty people in the world. Not a lot of them are very interesting. Not a lot of them are that good in bed. 

Some people are sexy because of how they make you feel. That’s more rare. 

Hopper’s hands make Billy crackle like a loose wire. Hopper’s mouth draws blood to the surface with even the lightest touch. It makes Billy flush, and ache, and  _ want.  _ It’s chemistry. Atoms reacting. Magnetic attraction pulling them closer together. 

_ “Daddy,” _ Billy whispers, in that soft, breathy voice that makes Hopper oh so pliable. 

“Yeah, baby?” Hop’s already reaching for the vaseline on the side table. 

“Want your fingers.”

Hopper groans. He struggles to get the jar open. Billy grinds against Hopper’s beer belly, whimpering, because it feels good, because Hopper likes to hear it. Because he needs some sort of stimulation right now or he’s gonna lose it. 

Finally, the lid of the jar pops off. Hopper presses a slick finger against Billy’s hole. It slides right in. Even though it’s thick. Almost as thick as two of Billy’s. Hopper adds another right away. Moves them just right. Billy gasps. He clutches at Hopper’s shoulders and kisses him again, desperate in a way that scares him a little. 

Billy rocks on Hopper’s fingers, ruts against his stomach, working himself up fast despite being stoned. It just feels so goddamn good. No anxiety about somebody walking in on them, or who might find out about it, or whether or not a sudden mood swing might rear its head and turn a pleasant evening into a bloody nose. Hopper is grumpy. He’s not mean. He’s careful when they’re like this. No matter how many buttons Billy pushes or barbed words that leave his lips, there’s no real threat of injury. 

Hopper makes Billy feel safe. 

“I’m close.” Billy murmurs. He rolls his hips a little faster. Hopper pushes his fingers a little deeper. 

“Christ.” Hopper groans.

“Just like this. ‘M gonna come just like this.” Billy starts to tense. His thighs tremble. The head of his cock is so sticky. It’s already left a wet spot on Hopper’s shirt. 

“That’s right. Come for Daddy.”

Billy makes a soft, broken noise. He falls apart. Clenching around Hopper’s fingers. Hips jerking. Making a sticky mess all over Hopper’s stomach. 

It takes him a minute to catch his breath. Hopper shifts. Starts to pull his fingers out. 

“Leave them in.” Billy nuzzles against Hopper’s neck. “Just a little longer.”

The song fades into  _ Mississippi Half-Step.  _

_ On the day that I was born, Daddy sat down and cried. Had the mark just as plain as day, it could not be denied.  _

Hopper runs his hand down Billy’s back. There’s no point to the touch. Other than just the touch itself. It feels nice. 


	3. Sick Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy's not feeling well.

Billy is what could be charitably described as _stubborn_. Other words that come to mind are: contrarian, snarky, and pig-headed. If Billy gets an idea in his brain, it’s hard to disabuse him of it. 

Even when the idea is that he needs to go to work despite the fact that he’s running a fever and is currently sprawled across Jim’s bathroom floor. He hasn’t been able to keep anything down since last night. 

“Billy, if you don’t call in—I’m gonna call in for you.”

“I’m fine.” Billy groans. 

He tries to sit up and the sudden change in equilibrium must make him nauseous, because then he’s dry-heaving into the toilet. 

It’s a Saturday, so Jim has nowhere to be. He has the time to carefully pick Billy up and walk him back to the bedroom. He puts a trashcan by the bed and tells Billy not to make a mess on the sheets. Then he calls the shop. 

“Grady’s Auto Repair.” A gruff voice comes on the line. 

“Heya, Chuck. It’s Jim Hopper.”

“Oh, hey Jim. Cruiser givin’ you trouble?”

“Not exactly. Uh. You know that Hargrove kid? I think he works for you?”

“Yeah. What about him? He in your drunk tank this morning?”

“Not exactly. I found him pulled over on the side of the road, sick as a dog, and running a fever. The bastard couldn’t even drive. I had to take him back home.”

“Huh. He gonna live?”

“I think so. I probably wouldn’t expect him at the shop the next couple days.”

“All right. Thanks for lookin’ out.”

“No problem.”

“Take care.”

The line goes dead. Jim has to wonder exactly how plausible he sounds. He makes an effort not to be seen with Billy around town. He tries to keep up appearances. But people talk. The blue Camaro is in Jim’s driveway a lot. Some of the other deputies have seen it when he didn’t answer the phone and they came looking for him. Jim hasn’t heard anything directly, of course. It still must be puzzling. It must be juicy gossip.

If Jane were around, he’d say Billy was babysitting. It’s common knowledge that Jane is not around.

Jim gets out the aspirin, and a wet washcloth, and the thermometer. He knows Billy can’t take pills yet. He settles on the bed next to him and sticks the thermometer in his mouth. Billy grumbles. It comes out reading a hundred and one degrees. He puts the washcloth on Billy’s head. 

“Go the fuck to sleep.”

Miraculously, Billy does.

Billy sleeps for hours and hours. Jim has time to tidy up around the house. Have a few cigarettes. Have a beer. He goes to the grocery store and picks up some cans of chicken soup. He tosses saltine crackers, and lipton’s tea, and a six-pack of ginger ale into the basket. When he gets back to the cabin, Billy’s still knocked out.

He doesn’t wake up until about nine o’clock that night. 

Jim puts him on the couch and tells him he’s allowed to have a sip of ginger ale every fifteen minutes for the next couple hours, until they’re sure he’s not gonna puke it back up. Billy looks god awful. He’s got dark circles under his eyes. His nose is running. He wraps himself in a blanket and lies on the couch, staring at the TV with glassy eyes. Jim sits in the armchair next to him, having a couple more beers. There’s a Clint Eastwood movie on. 

By eleven, Billy hasn’t thrown up anymore. So Jim gives him the aspirin. Billy doesn’t want to eat. He’s shivering. Groaning.

“You wanna stay out here with the TV on, or go back to bed?” 

“Bed.” Billy mumbles.

Jim’s getting a work out today, carrying the poor bastard back and forth. He gets Billy under the covers and turns the lights out. He figures he’s already doomed if he’s gonna catch whatever Billy has. So as soon as he lies down, he pulls Billy in close, curls around him. Billy shifts onto his side. Presses his face into the side of Jim’s neck.

“I’m too sick to fuck.” Billy barely whispers.

“No shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You got nothing to apologize for, kid.”

Jim kisses him on the top of the head. He feels a little stupid. But he also feels Billy relax in his embrace. Sometimes, the things Billy says make his chest ache. It makes him wonder what sort of douchebags Billy’s hung around before. Sure, Jim’s no peach. He’s not so heartless that he’d kick somebody out of his house because they’re ill and can’t put out. 

On Sunday, Billy manages to eat some soup and crackers. He still sleeps for about twenty hours. Jim drags him into the shower and changes the sheets.

Jim doesn’t go into the station on Monday. Instead he sits on the couch, running his fingers through Billy’s long blonde hair. Billy’s appetite is back. He eats more soup. Then some oatmeal. Some toast with peanut butter on it. He drinks a lot of tea and smokes a cigarette because the withdrawal on top of the flu has apparently been hellish.

On Tuesday they both go back to work. Billy doesn’t come back over, which is understandable. He’s been cooped up in Jim’s house for days. Jim takes the opportunity to open up the windows and air the place out. He’s still feeling fine. He hopes it stays that way.

On Wednesday Jim comes home and the Camaro is in the driveway. His bedroom door is open when he walks inside. He hears soft gasping and slick noises. 

Billy is stretched naked across the bed. Three fingers in his ass. He’s hard. Cock flushed and twitching. There’s dry come on his stomach. He’s already gotten himself off at least once. Jim’s heart rate ticks up instantly. He doesn’t even bother taking off his uniform. He just unzips his pants and pulls Billy to the edge of the bed by his ankles. 

“God _damn._ ” Jim groans as he sinks inside.

Billy’s slick, and hot, and so perfect. He moans so pretty as Jim moves inside him. 

_“Harder.”_ Billy whimpers. 

Jim’s happy to oblige. He pounds into Billy, deep and rough. The slap of skin echoes through the room. Billy fists his hands in the sheets. Rocks back against every thrust, always greedy for more. No matter how much Jim gives him, Billy will still be needy.

He mumbles dirty nothings. _Daddy, please, right there, oh god, oh fuck._

Billy wraps a hand around his cock and strokes it twice. He squeezes and flutters around Jim as he comes, back arched, whole body shuddering. It’s too much to cope with. Jim drives into him. Chasing the wonderful friction. 

“Inside,” Billy hiccups. “Come inside me.”

Jim does.


	4. The Usual Script

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Tags** : Depression, Mental Illness, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
> 
> Billy’s in a mood.

Sometimes, Billy has sharp days. 

Everything about the world is prickly. His skin feels too tight. There’s an ache in his chest that makes it seem like he can’t get enough oxygen, no matter how deep he breathes. No matter how many times he sighs, there’s no sense of relief. 

There’s no comfortable position. Standing. Sitting. Lying down. As soon as he tries to settle, he feels the urge to squirm. On days where it doesn’t all make him too tired, he walks. He can walk for hours to nowhere. At least he’s alone, and it’s quiet, and he can just put one foot in front of the other. Walking doesn’t make anything better, but it doesn’t usually make things worse. He needs to stay out of the car as much as possible, because if he’s behind the wheel he’ll think about just letting go and trusting fate to take him into a tree trunk. 

Being around other people is a tossup. Making someone else hurt, with barbed words, calculated digs, a punch to the gut, eases the stress temporarily. Dealing with the fallout later can send him into another spiral. Getting fucked within an inch of his life can be a distraction. The people who will treat him rough as he wants them to are the sort of people he keeps telling himself he needs to stay away from. 

What’s familiar is rarely good, in Billy’s case. So instead he’s on Hopper’s couch. Legs resting on broad shoulders as Hop pumps into him. 

Billy isn’t registering it. He’s got half a chub at best. Like. Hop’s dick is objectively big. He knows what to do with it. On a normal day, Billy would be moaning. Grinding back against his thrusts. 

Right now, it’s too slow. It’s too gentle. It’s too focused on him. Billy wants to be _used._ He wants to be ruined and hung out to dry. He wants it to feel bad, because then at least he’ll feel something. 

So Billy says, “Fuck me like you mean it, fatass. Or I’ll find somebody who will.”

“Excuse me?” Hopper stops moving altogether. He’s sweaty. Breathing a little heavy. 

Billy pokes at Hopper’s beer gut. He loves the beer gut. It’s soft. There’s something comforting about pressing up against it. He can grind on it so easy when he’s in Hopper’s lap. He knows Hopper is insecure about it. Billy’s never said anything about how much he likes it. Because Billy is an asshole. 

“You heard me. Like. Can you go any faster or you gonna slip a disk?”

Hopper raises an eyebrow. He starts to move again. Agonizingly slow. Deep. It’s almost enough to light up the nerves that would make Billy whimper. Almost. 

“I’m not doing shit if you can’t ask nicely.” Hopper huffs. 

The words send a little zing of heat up Billy’s spine. Hmmm. 

“More like you’re too out of shape to give me a real workout. Come on. _Fuck me.”_

“Keep talking like that, and I’m gonna leave you like this. Wet, open, and empty.”

“Yeah right. You’re desperate to come in me.”

“Try me. In fact, if you don’t fix your attitude—you can seep in your own bed tonight.”

Billy shivers. Maybe rocks back against Hopper’s dick just a little. This isn’t following the usual script. Usually it goes:

  1. Billy acts like a bitch
  2. Whoever he’s needling at snaps
  3. They make him hurt like he wants them to
  4. He feels better for a minute
  5. Then he feels like shit



This type of behavior is met with physical or emotional violence. That’s the purpose. 

It has never been met with a firm boundary that wasn’t wrapped in barbed wire. 

“Slap me,” Billy tries. 

“No.”

“If you weren’t such a limp-dicked bitch you’d have the balls to choke me out or something.”

Hopper withdraws. He sits back. He levels a _look_ at Billy. Then he starts to get off the couch, despite the fact his dick is hard. 

“Wait,” Billy says before he can stop himself. 

Hopper pauses. Still just looking at him. 

“Don’t leave.” It’s uncomfortable to say. More uncomfortable than gasping for air. Billy’s cock throbs, really starting to fill out. He _wants._ He’s not sure what he wants. It’s the first thing he’s felt today that wasn’t entirely masochistic. 

“You gonna behave?” Hopper asks. Voice a little deeper. Rough in that way that makes Billy ache. 

“Maybe.” Billy’s a little breathless. 

“Maybe?”

“Yes—I’ll… I’ll try.”

“Good boy.” Hopper smiles. 

Billy hates the way it makes his back arch. He spreads his legs wider. _“Please,”_ he barely whispers. 

Hopper lines up and slides back into him. He keeps a lazy pace. Fucking Billy deep, but kind of tender. It’s different now. Billy’s whimpering. 

“There we go, baby.” Hopper runs a hand up Billy’s leg. Billy’s agreeable when Hop lifts it, moves it back to his shoulder. The angle is so good. Billy grabs the edge of the couch cushion. 

_“Daddy,”_ Billy’s breath hitches. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“More. Please. Need more.”

Hopper snaps his hips a little harder. A little faster. Billy whines. He feels high. Dizzy the way he usually gets when Hopper’s touching him. The anxious tension morphs into something else. It becomes the curl of anticipation. 

When Hopper reaches down, wraps a wide hand around Billys cock and gives it a few strokes, everything falls apart. Billy comes. His hips jerk, and he floods with warmth. The numbness thaws. The fog has broken. It’s sweet release. 

It feels so good he wants to cry, so he does. As Hopper groans and empties into him, Billy’s eyes burn. He feels the wet tears gather at the corners of his eyes. Hopper pulls out of him. He sits back. Billy immediately climbs in his lap. He hides. Pressing his face into the side of Hopper’s neck. 

Hop holds him. Tight enough to be a comfort, loose enough that it doesn’t feel claustrophobic. The tears fall slow. Billy can’t bear to shed too many. It’s a mixed catharsis. Bleeding away the stress, but the guilt of weakness hovers like a cloud about to descend on him. 

“It’s OK, baby.” Hop says. “I’ve got you. You’re fine.”

He sounds so sure. So steady. For a moment, Billy lets himself believe it. 


	5. Pancakes

Billy is drunk. 

Not a few beers, or a couple shots of whiskey, or even a joint with a gin and soda drunk. He’s shitfaced in a way that Jim’s never seen him before. Billy is sprawled across the bed, sloppy and giggling. Face flushed pink. Naked and squirming on the sheets. He was already at this level Jim walked through the door. Lord only knows when he started. It was hell trying to get him to drink some water. The boy’s got a one track mind when he’s this intoxicated. 

“Why are you so far away?” Billy whines. Actually reaching out for Jim and making grabby hands. 

“Because you need to go to sleep.”

“Need you to fuck me.”

“You’re gonna pass out while I’m inside you.”

“Nuh uh. And if I do, so what? Rick says I feel really good when I’m sleeping.”

“Who’s Rick?”

“Why?” Billy laughs at him. 

“If someone’s fucking you while you’re unconcious, that seems like a bad situation.”

“I like it.” Billy props himself up on his elbows. “Like waking up full and split open. And I like getting fucked to sleep.”

“I’m not doing that.”

Billy flops back on the bed and sighs. He’s half hard. He runs a hand down his body. Wraps it around his cock. Starts to jerk off. 

“Don’t you want me, Daddy?” His breath hitches. 

“Not when you’re like this.”

Billy stops. He blinks up at Jim with glassy eyes, like he’s genuinely confused. 

“Look. I’m not taking advantage of you when you’re too drunk to remember it. Do you even know where you are right now?”

It takes a minute. And that’s way too long. Jim should go make up the guest room. He can’t sleep next to Billy tonight. Billy is _persistent_ and if he doesn’t pass out, they’d probably end up having sex. 

“We’re at your house, Daddy.”

“Uh huh. What’s my name?”

There’s another disturbingly long pause. “Hopper.”

“Well. Thanks for that, at least.”

Jim starts walking towards the door. He needs to get Billy some more water and he needs to put sheets on the guest bed 

“Daddy!” Billy sounds panicked enough that it makes Jim stop in his tracks. He even turns to look at Billy. 

“Yes?”

“Don’t leave me alone.” The tone has definitely shifted. Billy’s still flushed and spacy, but he doesn’t seem like he’s having a good time anymore. He rolls onto his side and just stares at Jim with the biggest puppy eyes. 

Well. Shit. 

Against his better judgment, Jim sits on the edge of the bed. He lets Billy press against him. He runs his fingers through Billy’s soft, blonde curls. It makes Billy settle. Relax. Jim could almost imagine the kid purring. 

“Do you love me?” Billy mumbles into the comforter. Half asleep already. 

God. Jim’s stomach twists. It’s a question he’s grappled with plenty over the last month or so. Since Jane left and Billy’s practically been living here. It feels so nice. Domestic. It’s not real and it can’t last. But the unreasonable, masochistic parts of Jim like to tell him it’s something he could have forever if he were brave enough. 

_“Daddy,”_ Billy’s breath hitches. “Do you love me?”

“Of course I do, baby.”

Billy sighs, soft and content. He’s out like a light a couple minutes later. 

Jim sleeps next to him. He wakes up in the morning when Billy lurches out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom to throw up. It’s a Sunday. Billy spends the next few hours in abject misery. Then he makes Jim turn off all the lights and close the curtains in the living room so he can lie on the couch and watch TV. Jim probably shouldn’t baby him. How’s he supposed to learn from a hangover of Jim’s giving him ginger ale and rubbing his back?

But Jim is weak. He likes feeling needed. 

By late afternoon Billy is doing better. He demands pancakes and coffee, which Jim is happy to provide. 

“You remember anything that happened last night?” Jim nudges Billy’s bare leg under the table. Billy never bothered to put his clothes back on. He’s just wearing one of Jim’s old t-shirts like a dress. 

“What do you think?” Billy snorts. 

“You know, it ain’t good to get that drunk alone.”

“You were late.”

“By an _hour_ , Billy.”

“How was I supposed to know when you’d be back? You didn’t call.” The words have just enough bite underneath to make it clear Billy means them. His feelings were hurt. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll call next time.”

“Whatever.” Billy puts his fork down. He drinks his coffee with two hands wrapped around the mug. 

“Are you seeing someone else?” The words are out before Jim can stop himself. 

“What?” Billy blinks. 

“You were talking about somebody named Rick last night. It didn’t sound like he treats you very well. I just wanted to uh… make sure you’re all right.” 

Jim knows it sounds like a lie. He’s not exclusively worried for Billy’s well-being. He’s also selfish, and possessive, and he knows Billy isn’t going to tolerate those emotions as well as most women do. 

“Rick lives in California.” Billy shrugs. “Damn. I was real fucked up, huh?”

“Yeah. You were.”

Billy takes a few more bites of pancake. He puts his feet in Jim’s lap. He seems a little less tense at least. 

Jim doesn’t bother to wash the dishes. He just dumps them in the sink. Billy wanders back to the bedroom, and Jim follows him. 

Billy ends up on top of him. Riding Jim’s cock slow and lazy. He moans so pretty. He’s still wearing Jim’s shirt. He’s tight, and hot, and perfect. Jim’s chest hurts. He’s very concerned the words might slip out again now that he’s said them once. He’s not sure how a sober Billy would react to it. A passionate _I love you_ in the middle of sex might be enough to send him running. 

He holds onto Billy’s hips. Starts to thrust up into him. Billy whimpers.

“Feels good, Daddy.”

“Yeah? You close, sweetheart?”

“Uh huh.” Billy rocks his hips a little faster. He pulls the shirt up enough to show Jim how hard his cock is. “Touch me.”

Jim does. He wraps a hand around Billy’s cock and strokes it. Billy doesn’t take long. Soon he’s squeezing and fluttering around Jim. He gasps and splatters warm come on Jim’s stomach. It’s easy to chase the friction after that. Jim’s there with him before too long. He buries himself deep and groans. 

Nothings ever felt quite like Billy does. Jim’s still breathless and a little light headed even after he comes. Billy slumps forward to kiss him. It makes Jim’s cock slide out. But that’s fine. He’s going soft. At this point he’d rather have his tongue in Billy’s mouth. 


	6. Shoebox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Tags:** Implied/referenced Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dissociation, PTSD
> 
> Billy revisits memories he shouldn’t.

Billy knows it’s a bad idea to go through the shoebox. 

It’s just that Hopper didn’t answer the phone last night, because Billy called too late. Tommy didn’t answer the phone. Even Max didn’t answer the phone. Not that she usually wants to talk to him anyway. But if he’d told her how bad of a night it was, she might have read a story to him. She would do that sometimes when they were younger and she could tell he was on the edge of the cliff. She’d read to him. 

None of his roommates were home. Billy got drunk alone. 

He opened the shoebox. 

He got out of bed this morning and went to work. He isn’t usually very talkative at the shop. He does whatever Chuck tells him to do. He has cigarettes and black coffee for lunch. 

He feels like he’s not real. Maybe he didn’t actually wake up this morning. Maybe he’s been dead for years. He doesn’t know what he’s doing in Hawkins, Indiana. The entire state of California is poisoned. He doesn’t belong anywhere. 

He feels like he’s not real. 

It’s different than when he’s tense or angry. He doesn’t want to break anything. He doesn’t want to hurt anybody. He doesn’t want anything at all. You have to be alive to want things. 

After work, he drives to Hopper’s house because if he goes home he’s gonna open the shoebox again. It might not hurt right now. But even in this state, he knows it would be ill advised. Of course, Hopper isn’t home yet. Billy uses his key, lets himself in. He stands in the shower, cold water hitting his skin. It feels like an echo. A distant ripple of sensation. 

Billy puts on a pair of Hopper’s sweatpants and a _Colts_ jersey. He sits on the couch, with the TV blaring at him, and he doesn’t see anything. He doesn’t notice the door opening. He doesn’t even notice Hopper talking to him until there’s a hand on his shoulder. Billy pushes the hand away. 

_“Billy,”_ Hopper’s voice is tinged with concern. “Are you OK? Are you hurt?”

Billy shakes his head. 

“Are you sick? Do you need to go to the hospital or something?”

Billy shakes his head. 

“Are you on drugs?”

“No.” It’s the first thing Billy has said today. Kind of ironic, if he really thinks about it. 

Hopper sits down beside him, brow furrowed. Billy isn’t sure about touch. He inches away when Hopper reaches for him. 

“I’m serious, kid. What’s going on? Talk to me.”

“No,” Billy says. It feels good to say, he’s decided. 

Hopper looks at him for a long time. He sighs and gets up. Billy doesn’t pay attention to what’s happening around him. He just stares at the TV. It’s the Brady Bunch. That makes him feel nauseous. He changes it to the news. He can tune out the news. 

Hopper puts a bowl of spaghetti on the coffee table. Billy isn’t going to eat it. Hopper sits down next to him. He eats, and drinks a beer, and glances at Billy every few minutes or so. 

“I looked at the pictures.” Billy offers after Hopper is on his third drink. 

“What pictures?”

“Bad ones. I took them from someone. Because I didn’t want him to have them anymore.”

“I’m not sure I’m following.”

“I can’t throw them away. If he comes back, I have the pictures. So he has to leave me alone.”

“Billy… I don’t like the sound of this.”

Billy shouldn’t have said anything. There’s an awful sensation rising in his chest. Like choking on air. He doesn’t want to think about the pictures. He shouldn’t have told anyone about the pictures. 

“Is this about that Rick guy?”

“No.”

Rick wasn’t nice. There were much worse people before him.

“Can you be a little bit more specific? I want to help you, Billy. But I don’t understand exactly what you’re saying.”

“You can’t help me.”

“You sure about that?”

Billy shrugs. The news is making him nauseous too. He changes the channel. Baseball. No. No, no, no. He turns the TV off. The discomfort of silence is better than baseball. Billy _hates_ baseball. 

He draws his legs up onto the couch. Folds them against his stomach. He wraps his arms around them, curling into a lump. Hopper reaches for him again. 

“Don’t touch me.”

Maybe Billy says it just to see what happens. People don’t usually listen to him. 

Hopper’s hand drops, though. He leaves the couch after a few minutes of silence. Billy stares straight ahead at nothing. He’s not sure how long he does that. Time doesn’t matter. Time doesn’t fix everything, the way people like to pretend. 

Hopper clears his throat. He’s standing over Billy. 

“I uh… made up the guest room. If you want to sleep in there. Or you know. You’re welcome to the couch. If you need anything you know where to find me.”

Then he’s gone. 

Billy continues to sit there. He doesn’t feel dead anymore. He feels worse. And worse. And worse. It doesn’t matter that there is physical distance between him and the shoebox. It’s consuming him. 

The pictures used to get him off. Is probably the worst part. He liked what was happening when they were taken. He remembers that it felt good. 

He’s not going to cry. Even if there’s nobody to see. He doesn’t like crying. It doesn’t make anything better. 

Billy can’t stand being on the couch anymore. He turns off the lamp beside him. He walks through the dark to Hopper’s room. He can hear Hopper snoring. He bumps against the side of the mattress. He crawls under the sheets. 

He still doesn’t want to feel skin. The body heat is nice from a few feet away. Hopper isn’t like Rick. Billy’s not going to wake up with something inside him because he didn’t put out before falling asleep. Right now, that’s comforting. 

There will probably be questions tomorrow. Billy is good at dodging questions. Everything will go back to normal. He will wake up, and in the clear light of morning, he will swear he’s never going to open the shoebox again. 

Billy disappoints himself almost as often as he disappoints other people. 


	7. Bone-in Strip

“Where are we going?” Billy huffs as they turn onto  the highway. 

Jim dressed up a little. He’s in a button down and a suit jacket. He’s got his moustache combed. He put on cologne. Billy is in the usual. Tight jeans, half-open shirt. Looking surly and pouty, with a feather dangling from his ear. 

They’re driving until they get someplace that nobody will recognize them. Because Jim has never once taken the kid on a proper date and it’s time he corrects that. They can’t be seen together in Hawkins. Maybe they can be seen together somewhere else. Maybe there’s enough of an age gap that people will assume Billy is his son and not ask questions. Fucked as that is, he’s not fixing to deal with some trucker yelling slurs at him or some prissy waiter refusing them service. 

He wants them to have a nice night. 

“You’ll see where we’re going when we get there, huh?” Jim lights a cigarette. Billy rolls his eyes and lights one too. 

Jim let him shove a cassette in the tape player as soon as they got in the car. He’s tolerating the distorted guitar and thudding drums. Lately Billy’s been… fragile. After the day he showed up all catatonic, talking about shit that didn’t quite make sense, he didn’t come around for almost a week. Since then, he’s been withdrawn. He doesn’t want to smoke a joint, or watch TV, or eat whatever dinner Jim cooks him. He just wants to fuck and then leave. 

It’s a backslide. Back to how it was at the very beginning. When Billy was still in school and living at his parents house. Back to how it was when they were fucking in Jim’s car, or very late after hours at the station, and only at the cabin when Jane was having a sleepover with Max or the Byers. 

Sure. Billy is still prickly. But he wears Jim’s shirts. He’s cuddly in the middle of the night. There’s that time Jim’s been trying so hard not to think about—when Billy was shitfaced and asked if Jim loved him. 

They’d made so much progress. Now it all seems to have evaporated like dew off grass in the sun, and he’s not even sure what caused it. The unfairness of it all is not something Jim’s going to tolerate. 

Jim takes the exit. They’re a few towns over at this point. He hopes the Ruth’s Chris he sometimes took Diane to is still open. 

It is. They don’t need reservations at seven thirty on a Tuesday. They get a table right away in the smoking section. Billy seems a little nervous. Jumpy when the waiter leans over him to fill his water glass. Jim orders a bottle of red wine and asks for two glasses. The waiter has the good  sense not to ask for Billy’s ID. 

Billy stares at the menu. Jim doesn’t need to look. He lights a cigarette. Sips the wine. 

“I uh… I’ve never been to like. A steak restaurant.” Is the first thing Billy says. He hasn’t touched the wine. He keeps glancing around at the other patrons scattered across the restaurant. 

“Oh no? You’re in for a treat, kid.”

“I don’t know what to get.”

“Bone-in New York Strip’s always a good choice. Or we could share a big porterhouse.”

“Whatever you think.”

Billy sits up straight. He keeps his hands under the table. When the waiter comes by again, Jim orders two strips (medium-rare), some creamed spinach, crimini mushrooms, and the mashed potatoes. 

It doesn’t seem like Billy’s much in the mood for talking. Jim fills the silence with plans for the toolshed he’s gonna build by the cabin. He wants a real nice workspace. He wants to build some more shelves, fix up the kitchen cabinets. Re-stain the porch. Maybe Billy would want to come to the hardware store with him?

“Sure I guess. I’m not good at carpentry or something. I just know cars.”

“That’s OK. I can teach you.”

Maybe it’s a trick of the candle light on the table. It seems like Billy’s a little flushed. He’s only had the one glass of wine. 

The steaks arrive on piping hot plates. They’re delicious, as expected. Billy’s a bit timid about cutting into the steak. Once he tastes it, though, the meat goes fast. Jim knew he probably went overboard with the sides. They barely break into the mushrooms or spinach. But that’s all right. Dinner tomorrow.

Jim is stuffed to the brim when it’s just a bone left on his plate. He orders another bottle of wine instead of desert. Billy has more of the second round. He’s not so tense. He’s even smiling. 

When the check comes, Billy tries to put some cash down, but Jim just waves him off. 

“It was expensive—“

“Yeah and it’s my treat. Put your wallet away.”

Billy huffs. He doesn’t argue anymore, though. They leave with part of Billy’s steak and the sides wrapped up. On the drive home, Billy puts on the radio instead of the metal cassette. He picks some rock station. Obviously something he thinks Jim would like. 

Jim drives them back to the cabin. Billy comes inside with him. Billy drapes his arms around Jim’s shoulders and kisses him as soon as they’re through the door. The food gets left on the kitchen table. Billy hops up,  legs wrapped around Jim’s waist. Jim carries him to bed squeezing his ass as they walk. 

It’s nice to fall on top of Billy. To kiss him slow and deep. It’s been harsh lately. Billy just climbing on him and riding him like he’s mad about it. Seems like tonight’s allowed to be gentler. Billy gasps into his mouth, and clutches at him, and they rock together fully clothed for quite a while. 

Eventually, Jim moves enough to get them undressed. He smears some vaseline on his hand and wraps it around both of their cocks. He keeps it slow. Lost in the slide of their skin, in Billy’s soft moans. It doesn’t take long for Billy to shudder apart. That fact alone is enough to get Jim close. He comes all over Billy’s stomach. Then he flops onto his back. They just lie there, panting. Shoulders and thighs pressed together. 

“It’s not just the restaurant thing.” Billy says in the dark. 

“Hmm?”

“That was a date, wasn’t it?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Never done that before.”

“Christ.”

“I liked it.”

Billy kisses Jim on the cheek. It’s sweet. Like maybe things are back to normal. Jim hopes they are. 


	8. Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **CW: suicidal ideation.**

Neil left a drunk, angry voicemail at around two in the morning. Billy didn’t listen to it. Just the first few seconds of Neil’s voice was still enough to set him off. At least Neil doesn’t show up at his apartment. He doesn’t show up at Billy’s work. That’s really all that matters, Billy tells himself. 

He’s still thinking about it all day. While he’s on his back, covered in motor oil, he thinks about what Neil would possibly have to say to him at this point. Billy’s heard it all before. He’s a disappointment. A fuckup. No discipline. No sense of direction. The only thing that would make Neil happy is if Billy joined the army. Billy’s not really into that idea. 

He doesn’t understand why Neil even bothers to call. It happens at least once a week. Billy never answers the phone. Neil’s gotten one of his roommates a few times. They know to say Billy’s not home. Ignoring Neil is easier than engaging. Billy hasn’t actually talked to him since he moved out. 

Neil calls him a coward. A pussy. A real man faces things head on. 

Billy figures Neil might be lonely. Misses his punching bag. He sometimes feels guilty about where that violence might have been redirected. Not guilty enough to do anything about it. Not like there’s much he could do anyway. Susan’s not gonna leave. Max is too much of a spitfire to take any of Neil’s bullshit, and she’ll be out of there before long anyway. 

Sometimes, Billy used to wonder if he would make it out. Or rather, he wondered if he might take the coward’s way out. It would have proved Neil right. But at least Billy wouldn’t have been around to hear the _I told you so._

As he drives to Hop’s cabin, Billy ruminates on the bad thoughts. He used to have plans. He was going to take Neil’s shotgun and wrap his lips around it. Hit the trigger with his toe. Preferably splatter his brains all over Neil’s old military fatigues that he keeps folded and framed in the living room. Billy was gonna take them out and pin them to the wall behind him as one last fuck you. No note. Nobody around that would have cared to read it. He was gonna do it on a Sunday when Neil was at church with Susan. When Max was out of the house. He always hoped that she wouldn’t be the one to find him. Might have told her he was bringing some bitch home—so she should make herself scarce. 

He doesn’t sink into that place as often now. It’s better since he’s not in Neil’s house anymore. There’s still a voice that whispers in the back of his head sometimes, about how it would be easier if everything just stopped. If everything stopped, Billy wouldn’t have to worry about the bills that always seem to be due or the fact that he lives on spaghettios and kraft mac n cheese when he’s not at Hop’s house. He wouldn’t need to contemplate the fact that he’ll never be able to save enough money to leave Hawkins—and even if he did, there’d be no place to go. He wouldn’t have to decide what he’s gonna do with his life. He wouldn’t have to dread the weekly phone calls. Mostly, he would stop remembering things that hurt so bad they make him question whether or not it’s worth it to keep breathing. 

In the grand scheme of things, Billy doesn’t have much to live for and there are very few people who would miss him. Hop might. In fact, he’s probably the only one besides Chuck who would notice until rent came due. Tommy is still Billy’s friend in a technical sense. But they barely see each other anymore. He’d be sad at the news, but he’s get over it eventually. Max might mourn him. But again. She wouldn’t know for weeks. 

None of it seems like a pressing issue at the moment, though. It’s just a passive, lingering storm cloud that he never quite outruns. He figures someday it will engulf him. Then that will be that. 

Not today. He and Hop are going to work on the shed today. They don’t have much but the scaffolding up, but it’s coming along. Maybe they’ll start nailing up planks for the walls or finish the floor. Then Hop will make dinner. They’ll have sex. Billy will feel good. Even if it’s just for a little while. 

Billy parks in front of the cabin. Hop isn’t home yet. Billy takes a shower. Throws on a pair of Hop’s sweatpants and a t-shirt. Grabs a beer from the fridge. The phone rings. 

“Hopper residence, Billy speaking.” He smiles, bites the edge of his lip. He knows Hop hates it when he answers the phone like that. 

“Billy?” There’s a soft, female voice on the other end of the line. 

Fuck. 

“Um. Yeah. Who’s this.”

“Jane.” 

Theres a long pause. Like. Jane knows about Billy. He and Hop have been fucking way too long for her not to know. But it’s not like he and Jane interact. In fact, he tries his best to avoid her. It’s awkward. He always hated Neil’s girlfriends. Especially the real young ones. The ones closer to Billy’s age than Neil’s. 

Not that Billy is Hop’s girlfriend. He’s not Hop’s anything, really. They’ve been on one date. Billy’s not gonna act like some desperate bitch and assume it means they’re _together_ or something. At the end of the day, he knows he’s just a hole to fuck. That’s all he’s ever been. 

But was also the time Hop said. Well. Billy basically demanded he say it. Because Billy was drunk and sad. And sometimes Rick would say it when Billy was drunk and sad. It would make things feel better for half a minute. Billy knows it doesn’t count, though. He’s not stupid. 

“Jim didn’t answer at the station. I thought he might be home,” she says. Stiff and stilted. 

“Uh. Yeah. He’s not here. Maybe he’s driving.”

The question lingers in the air unsaid. _Why are you there if he isn’t?_ There’s just more tense silence. 

“Well. Tell him I called.”

“Yeah. For sure.” Billy swallows a few sips of beer. Jane isn’t hanging up. He’s not sure how to proceed.

“Are you OK, Billy?” She asks it so abruptly. Quite literally out of nowhere. 

“What?” He blinks. 

“You seem… sad.”

He has no idea what he said to give that impression. It’s not even an accurate one. He's not sad. He’s exhausted. 

“I’m fine. Uh. Are you OK?”

“Yes.”

Silence. Billy shifts back and forth on his feet. If it were anyone else, he’d excuse himself. But it’s his fault that this conversation is happening at all. He shouldn’t have picked up. 

“Take care of yourself.” Jane finally says, with more authority than a fifteen-year-old should be able to muster. 

“Yeah. You too.”

“Goodbye.”

The line goes dead. Billy doesn’t know what to do with himself. He ends up on the couch, watching TV, smoking a cigarette. He’s three beers deep by the time Hop gets back. 

“Your daughter called.” Billy says without looking up when he feels Hop standing over him. 

“Oh… uh…”

“I can go outside if you want some privacy to call her back or whatever.”

“You don’t have to go outside.” Hop snorts. He ruffles Billy’s hair.

But he does go to the kitchen and pick up the phone. Apparently nobody answers. Because he’s back after a few minutes. He settles down next to Billy. Drapes an arm around him. Still wearing his uniform. Billy curls against him, resting his cheek on Hop’s chest. 

He doesn’t want to work on the shed anymore. His bones feel too heavy. 

“I’m tired.” He murmurs, as they continue to sit there and his eyelids want to close. 

“That’s OK, baby. Do you wanna take a nap? I’ll cook.”

“Don’t get up.” Billy mumbles. 

Hop squeezes him. Billy must actually fall asleep. He wakes up to the smell of bacon frying. Breakfast for dinner. He’s lying on the couch with a pillow under his head and a blanket tucked in around him. He takes the blanket with him to the kitchen. He drapes it over his shoulders and sits at the table. Hop puts a plate in front of him before too long. Billy’s still a little groggy as they eat. Hop talks about football and Billy half listens. He wants to do the dishes. He usually does them. But he’s too tired. He just lets Hop put them in the sink. 

Billy shuffles off to the bedroom. Lies down while Hop takes a shower. Doesn’t close his eyes or anything. He just stares at the wall until Hop turns off the lights and settles down next to him. 

“You feeling all right, kid? Getting sick or something?”

“My dad called.” Billy isn’t sure why he says it. He never really talks about Neil. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He calls pretty often. Leaves voicemails.”

“You don’t want to talk to him.” It’s not a question. Billy’s grateful for that at least. 

“He’s an asshole.”

“Well. There’s no need to talk to him, then. Hell. My old man died alone in a nursing home, just like he deserved.”

Billy smiles a little at that. He’s usually hesitant to hint that he and Neil don’t get along. People always seem to have opinions about it. Forgive your parents. Forget any of the bad things. Love and honor thy mother and thy father, even if one abandoned you and the other beat the hell out of you. 

He presses closer against Hop, just to feel the body heat. To feel like he’s not alone. To feel like being alive is a good thing. When he’s lying here next to Hop, it’s easier to believe than usual. 


End file.
